


A Day in the Life

by KBates



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Stream of Consciousness, Triggers, of all sorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-25 02:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16188098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KBates/pseuds/KBates
Summary: Some experimental writing on my end. Completely self indulgent. Stream of consciousness.





	1. 18 and Nicotine

You’re 18 when you start smoking. Not exactly—you’ve never been a smoker smoker—you’ve just smoked socially…once in a while. More than necessary on certain days, none on others.

Anyways, the friend who’s introduced you to the joys of smoking looks at you with a contemptuous expression on her face. ‘Inhale K.’

‘I’m inhaling Mel.’

‘No…stop…inhale…now inhale again…take it into your lungs.’

You’re a coughing mess.

\--

You’ve never believed in blaming other people for your problems—you’ve always gone looking for yours. You found a savior in Mel—you wanted it. To learn.

She’s shorter than you, smaller framed—her head seems like a lollipop—too big for her body. You crave that kind of smallness—it doesn’t occur to you that you’re actually skinnier.

‘Can’t do it.’

‘Stick your finger in your throat—it’s not rocket science.’

Throwing up—that is Mel’s superhero talent—she can make herself throw up anywhere. In restaurant bathrooms, walking around campus—into a trashcan that’s hidden from plain view. You name it.

You can’t—you have a weird vomit phobia for some reason.

\--

‘I feel sick.’

‘You’re supposed to.’ Cassandra’s not impressed. She went to the uni counselor the other day—he’d given her some bullshit advice.

You see her picture on her ID, and the way she looks right now—not even a year later—and wow. You’re terrified that could happen to you. One bad breakup = 30 lbs. Thirty fucking pounds. She’s 5’10’’ – she can carry the weight. But jeez—she went from looking like a supermodel, to…not.

‘What did the counselor say anyway?’ Said counselor reminds you of David Spade in Just Shoot Me. Except he’s black and super tall—but attitude wise? Perfect match.

‘Told him I overate every time I was stressed—he said some people eat to deal with their problems, some people commit suicide.’

You laugh. ‘Then what?’

‘At the end of the session he said try not overeating so much.’

‘So you’re supposed to commit suicide?’

We laugh. And we smoke.

“You sure this will kill my appetite, right?”

\--

You’re 95 lbs and 5’3’’ (you grow an inch taller a few years later b/c you’re strange that way)—genetics gives you a unique frame—your shoulders and hips are wide, your ribcage is very narrow. Hourglass in miniature. You’ll always have an ass. Or the illusion of an ass courtesy your bone structure.

This is years before the Kardashians are popular—and you’ve hated your ass throughout high school. Illusion and all. But sometimes you like it—when you’re skinny enough the hipbones are razor sharp, you like knocking on them with your knuckles…tap…tap…tap…bone against bone. No flesh.

You do that with your ribs as well—you count—Dr. Seuss style. One rib, two rib, red rib, blue rib. You bruise so very easily.

At 95 lbs, you don’t need to wear a bra—it’s a nice feeling—you love the way clothes fit—straight…sharp…lean. Still—you have no clue how thin you are. You go shopping with your friends and ask for a size 3—they laugh. Girl, you’re a zero.

The thinner you get, the more you smoke.

\--

You’re at a club—the type that’s four floors and has plenty of drugs—with Mel and Cassandra and one of Mel’s friends. Who goes to a different branch of the same uni—Mel’s not impressed. She says comparing her uni with ours is like comparing a department store Armani suit to the actual Armani label.

You like how Mel thinks in designer brands—she teaches you how to be a proper snob. Not the fake kind on soap operas and shit. She teaches you how to hate brassy highlights—frosted lip gloss. ‘Disgusting combination’ she says.

Years later you think you’ve become an even bigger snob. Mel did logos—she had one of those colorful LV bags that Dooney & Bourke copied shamelessly…and cheaply too. Sometime after 25, you don’t do logos. You do understated leather. In bags anyway.

She also teaches you how to choose your calories ‘if you’re going to risk something being a permanent part of your ass, it better be worth it.’

You quit eating Dairy Queen. You never eat Dairy Queen products again. Ever.

You’re dressed in a backless halter and jeans—endless heels—you actually pass for a tall person. You have a pretty enough face—you’re approachable—men come up to you—you’re happy, but you have no idea what to do with that kind of attention. You’re kicking yourself for not having gotten rid of your virginity in high school—maybe you’d be less of a pussy then—the girl who pretends to be bold and brash, but runs away before doing anything.

You’re always in and out—smoking, smoking, smoking. Your stomach is empty—two tequila shots are enough to get you tipsy—but you crave the buzz of oxygen deprivation to the brain.

\--

You’re going out with a boy—who’s all into social justice. He’s all ‘k you’re so privileged this, you’re so privileged that.’ This is years before social justice became a popular thing—but then again, this is Canada so maybe it was always a thing.

He looks at you, Mel, and Cass—and tells you you’re just a bunch of privileged spoiled kids without any ‘real problems.’ Hence you’re creating nonsensical bullshit.

You think it’s hilarious. He’s as white as it gets, his parents are lawyers, he has dreadlocks. Talk about privilege and identity crisis.

Both of you smoke rose flavored cigarettes (imported from Cuba) together.

It doesn’t even last 4 months.

\--


	2. Devil's Advocate

You love it. It gets you high sometimes – it twists your brain – good distraction when something’s wrong.

You’re five? Six? Seven? You don’t remember – you’re learning to whistle.

“K…it’s not very ladylike to whistle.”

You make damn sure you learn how to whistle, and whistle well. Esp in said person’s face.

\--

You’re dating a boy—years later when you look back on your life, you realize you’re a serial monogamist. You like being in relationships. You’ve barely been single ever since you’ve been allowed to date.

The boy thinks you’re too arrogant. “K, you don’t have to act like you’re smarter than everybody else.”

“98 % of the school voted for George W during the mock elections. I am smarter than pretty much everybody else in this school.”

\--

You’re dating another boy—man, technically. He tells you something you take very seriously. “You look sweet, innocent, harmless—you have a pretty face—you don’t have to be aggressive K. Try being nice.”

At the time you scoff. Years later—you know he’s right.

Does that make you anti-feminist? Playing the sweetheart? Catering to a stereotype?

\--

The older you get, the less aggressive you are about politics. You’re afraid you’ve reached a place where you truly don’t give a damn as long as your life’s going well. Crazy right wing governments popping up around the world? Eh—doesn’t affect you on a daily basis.

The only place you even bring it up is online.

\--

“You’re like a mouse…that thinks it’s a tiger.”

“EXCUSE ME?”

“Look at you—you’re not threatening in the least. Bite someone and they’ll bite back harder.”

That’s when you learn to be sneaky. Learn how to bite without biting.

\--

You’re well versed in ‘oh fuck, I can’t say that’…’or that’…’or that.’ You learn a whole different set of social skills.

\--

There are times when you truly wonder – pretend to be someone long enough…do you become that person?


	3. Consistency in Chaos

You've always liked structured chaos...a sense of madness that follows a specific pattern. You've never been able to sit still--do one thing, focus on one thing. Your brain's never worked that way. 

 

A simple sentence 'She ate an apple this morning.' Or is it? Your brain's never taken things at face value. A million thoughts run through your head:

 

Who is she? What does she look like? How old is she? Where is she?

 

Is it a red apple? green apple? yellow apple? Does it taste sweet or slightly sour--is the skin hard or soft enough. Is the flesh soft -- or hard? Does she even like apples? 

 

Morning can mean post 12 am to 12 pm, technically--what time is it? Is she eating the apple for breakfast -- or as a snack? 

 

Those are just a few--a thousand other thoughts run through your head at top speed. A million combinations. Permutations and combinations of what a situation is--what it could be--what it should be. And why. You love the word why--it makes life all the more interesting. 

 

\--

 

Your so called IQ is relatively high--obviously not genius levels high but significantly higher than the 'norm' -- which is what? 100 to 110? Anyway, you've been in the 'gifted' section since middle school. Elementary school -- you attended a private institution. You've always been a few years ahead of your class in mathematics. It comes very easily to you. This really doesn't make a difference to your life in the long run--in fact, you're convinced it's the reason why you lack common sense at times. 

 

8th grade -- you're in 9th grade algebra. You think it's a joke. More than a few kids just CANNOT understand how to solve a basic equation. They don't get the simple concept that if you do something to one side of the equation, you do the same thing to the other side of the equation. It's not rocket science. You can't believe how dumb some people are--and you say it to your mother. 

 

She gives you a long, long, long lecture on privilege and how different people have different circumstances--and not everyone's dad came home from work and did maths puzzles with their kids. 

\--

 

Your memory's crazy. You remember minute details from books you've read years ago. Word for word. You remember tiny details of certain vacations you took--you can still feel the emotions like it happened yesterday. It tempers down with age. It's not something you consider beneficial--it's great when you had to study for an exam--esp when opening the textbook for the first time three days before a major exam. But day to day life as an adult? Useless. 

It's a major pain when you're writing. 'Is that my original thought--or am I remembering this from somewhere--but I don't know where?' 

So you use emotions to write--if they're your emotions or simulated emotions, it can't be from anywhere else--right?

Not that you're the greatest with emotions.

You suck at emotions. 

Like at times when you have to give your condolences--you look at other people and try emulating the look of 'sorrow' on your face. It makes you really, really uncomfortable. 

\--

You hate boredom--you hate hate hate being in a position where you have to oversee something slow. Super slow. You have to DO SOMETHING or else you'll go insane. 

 

Then you start writing. 

 

...and then your brain starts racing by itself. It goes into fast mode--when that happens, you can finish an insane amount of crossword puzzles in an hour, you can speed read like a maniac, you can write write write write write. And when it stops, life slows down a little. 

 

One doctor has told you very seriously that you're lucky you don't have a down cycle. 

 

You don't think you'd be very good with a 'down cycle'--you barely feel down, but when you do...it ain't pretty. 


End file.
